Relapse, Recover, Repeat
by Lilin7797
Summary: You are Dave Strider and you are ashamed to say that you let the world of drugs and sex and Bad Things take ahold of you. You managed to pull yourself out of those dark times, and you're now rebuilding your new life. But it turns out that people from your old life showing up doesn't do any good in keeping you clean, nor with your chances at making that sky-kissed boy swoon...
1. Chapter 1

_The inhale._

_The exhale._

_The brush of steady hands._

_The pinch._

_The swelling of pressured veins._

_The deliberation._

_The sting._

_The click._

_The linger._

_The pure ecstasy._

_The hiss of breath._

_The inhale._

_The exhale__._

You slowly pull out of your subconscious, bleary eyes strained against the light reflected off the too-white ceiling that looms above your head. Your alarm clock insists that you really should be getting up. _It's 7:00 Dave... _Shaking the thoughts from your mind, in an almost literal sense, you drag yourself out of the confines of your bed and find yourself in the small, shitty adjoining bathroom.

You make short time of getting yourself up and ready, already sitting at the table eating fruit loops thirty minutes later, thumbing through texts you won't answer on your knock-off cell phone. You grumble a morning salute to your roommate as he makes his first appearance of the day, clearly much more accustomed to getting up early and going out than you.

You'd think that after two months back at school you would have gotten used to it, but it's probably stupid to think that when you spent the past three years doing fuck-all.

Another thirty minutes later finds you sitting on the bus, reflective aviators in their candid spot on your standard, noncommittal face, earbuds in, a wooly hat pulled over your perfectly mussed hair to honour the biting chill of the wintery air. As always, you are the complete image of nonchalance, your backpack slung over one shoulder, jacket hanging open, poker face intact. You do your best not to look at anyone for too long because hey, that's weird, and weird is the last thing you are. You are Dave Strider, the epitome of cool. If these people realized how cool you were, they would be falling all over themselves to sit closest to you on this overstuffed vessel of transportation. Alas, they always prove to be sufficiently oblivious.

You reach your stop within a few minutes and step off the bus along with a few other kids. You don't know them, nor do you care about getting to know them, but you would bet your shades that they know who you are. You're that weird kid. The guy who's like 17-or-something but is in grade 10. What a loser. Or maybe just a creep? Or a head case. Total hottie. Freak. Badass motherfucker. Underachiever. You've heard it all, in harsh whispers when you pass, kids half hoping you'd hear and explain, but also hoping you wouldn't and just keep walking.

You always do though. Keep walking, that is. You couldn't care less about what these kids think. As long as they don't know. It's quite possible there are true speculations, but if the kids don't know that they are in fact correct, then there's no reason to spare even a dash of your sought after dusting of fucks. Simple as that. Sometimes you think about making up a story so they'd shut up, something about being home-schooled or some other stupid spew, but frankly, you're not a huge fan of deliberately lying for other people's sake. Especially when those people have no place in your life other than blurred faces swirling around with all the other bullshit that makes up your daily routine.

Your first class is English, which proves to be fucking jacked. This stubby woman (who looks ancient but is somehow managing to shuffle around a classroom with all the exuberance of a puppy) will inevitably assign reading and an insufferable amount of homework every single fucking day, no matter how much you prove you are capably literate. You'd honestly rather read a fucking dictionary than listen to her blather about summaries and plot and A Lot of Other Shit That You Don't Care About for an hour.

Second period you have Science. This class can be pretty cool, but overwhelming as hell. You can barely stand the daily lectures on all sorts of weird crazy shit like physics and chemistry, but you manage. About a week ago you were pleasantly surprised to find, in the back of a cabinet behind some old equipment, some dead animals preserved in jars of formaldehyde. You have this weird, shamefully unironic and creepy liking for dead things, so you spend a lot of the classes now planning how you're going to smuggle those jars out of the classroom unnoticed, or bargain with the lab teacher to let you have them. You think of just striding out of the room with them in your hands, but a bunch of imaginative, anxious teenagers seeing you with an arm full of carcasses wouldn't help so much with the whole image thing.

Third you have History, which is totally lame. You figure that since you don't plan on starting any wars any time soon, that this practice of studying others' mistakes is pointless. Maybe if there was a class to study the mistakes of people in more modern times, more relatable mistakes (not that what is relatable to you would be relatable to many other kids in a high school classroom), then you'd take some interest in it. But no, History just serves as a chance for you to catch up on any lost hours of sleep.

You have lunch after, which is expectantly dull. Though you occasionally buy the over-priced food in the caf, you sit in the hall with a few acquaintances, who are quickly verging on becoming actual friends. They talk animatedly about their normal lives and normal parents and normal happenings and you do your best to keep up, let alone join in. Every day you wonder how the hell you even manage to have a group of friends, let alone one like this. This is the group of, well, to say the least, preps. At least two of them are members of the student union, and the rest are no doubt the overachieving type. They are all your polar opposite, yet somehow you feel relatively comfortable around them. Sometimes they cast you straying glances, as if they wonder the same thing, but mostly they just laugh with you and include you as much as possible, despite the awkward unfamiliarity.

Second last period you have Phys. Ed. Yeah. What the shit is up with that? Well, your terrible physical condition around the second semester of grade 9, which you dropped out of three years ago, led you to have failed the class. Therefore you are required to take it again. This also gets in the way of some other necessary classes this year, adding to the load of classes you will be attending during the summer of next year. The class is pretty lame, but it's not too bad now that it's getting cooler and a long sleeve shirt and sweats are appropriate attire for physical exertion. You're not the figment of healthy active living, hell you can barely handle the 6 minute run without coming up wheezing, sometimes even vomiting after the longer ones. But hey, packing your body full of insane chemical waste for three years will do that to a guy. You are still passing the course as far as you know.

Finally, last period you have Photography, which is what you look forward to all fucking day. It's one of the few reasons you bother going to school anymore, besides your few friends, which are all subsequently in different grades and/or classes than you. Photography is your reprieve. Maybe it's the rhythmic click of the shutter going off, dividing moments into fractions. Maybe it's seeing life through a lens, distancing yourself from reality by way of a camera between you and a moment. Maybe it's the idea of being able to capture time. With cameras, time is no object. When you spend hours after school in the developing room, you are suspended in the past. When you are hanging up the newly developed photos to dry, you are displaying a passing of events; time. When you look at a photo, you are transported back to that moment. A photograph makes time obsolete. No matter how much your life starts to blur together into a big mush of blurred colours, faces, sounds, and voices, a photograph will never fail to bring it all to a halt. It will grant you the chance to really go back and experience a moment, as you probably didn't get to when that past was present. You lose yourself in photography, and that's all you want to do these days. You want to just disappear. Fade into nothing. Become null. Nonexistent. Void.

Overall, school isn't too terrible. You think you wouldn't be able to handle it if you hadn't been able to wear your shades in class, which breaks the dress code so frivolously. You are grateful of your Bro for going ahead and getting that taken care of when he registered you. A simple lie, a forged doctor's note and a bit of acting allow you to get away with breaking an exaggerated rule. School has proven once again to be shockingly normal. Even after all these years, nothing has changed, except the people, and in more rare cases, the method. Still, you may have been ready to start fresh, make new friends, do things you never really thought you would do again, but you aren't ready to really face the world. Your sunglasses not only hide your freakish eyes, but they act as a barrier against pure reality, the same way the viewfinder of a camera does.

Then again, you think Bro would do anything for you now; he's been so relieved to know you were finally picking yourself off the floor that is the Ultimate Low. It is hard to keep on, and sometimes you question whether it is worth it, but a stubborn part of your brain wants you to really try this time. It could be good. If only you could forget those people. If only you could forget days upon endless days of floating above life itself. If only you could forget the sweet hum of liquid heaven coursing through your veins. It's never easy when you have these thoughts blazing through your mind in quick synapses, leaving a bitter aftertaste of pure desire.


	2. Chapter 2

"_Dave, I uhh, I got you something...," he says, crawling into your lap. You can barely see him in the dark, but he's close enough that you see his eyes glinting, reflecting the light from the hall._

**"**_Did you now? Should I be excited?" You raise an eyebrow, genuinely interested in the aspect of him actually getting you something. Considering how tight you all are on money, gifts are pretty much a foreign aspect to you._

**"**_Definitely," He coos. "Now um, close your eyes."_

_You comply after searching his face for a moment, and feel him shift slightly. There's a slight rustling, then silence. You're about to ask if you may open your eyes when you feel his lips on you, your own lips being coaxed apart by his. When he slips his tongue into your mouth, you go with it, despite your slight confusion. Your brain registers the familiarity of his taste, your hands make their way to his waist. He is warm against you, a stark contrast to your chilled skin. The fog of questions in your mind starts to clear as you melt into his mouth, lazily wrestling his tongue with your own. It is then you discover your gift as it is exchanged from his mouth to yours._

_You swish the small pill around on your tongue. Travis, having broken the kiss, is sitting back, watching you, anticipating your reaction. Judging by the size, texture, and the slight taste coming off it, this isn't ecstasy. You know X, having had quite your share in the past couple years. You mull it over for as long as possible, which is until the pill starts dissolving, and swallow it quickly. You watch Travis, who is watching you, and suddenly you have an idea of what it might be._**  
**

**"**_Did you seriously get me an oxy?" Your words are drawn out, hesitant, still somewhat unsure. You watch as a smile unfolds across his face. _

**"**_Happy birthday, Dave."_

Today is uncharacteristically warm for November. That is a good enough explanation as to why you've ended up lazing around in the grass behind your school for lunch, rather than holing up in the crowded hallways. You're with the usual crew; their quiet intermittent chatter somewhat soothing, even if you aren't listening. The sun feels perfect on your skin, the grass soft beneath you. A light breeze plays with your hair and you can't help smiling because, hey, sometimes you can be a sentimental guy, and moments like this are what makes life worth living feel a slight tickle in your throat, and you'd be damned if you let a cough harsh this tranquility, so you prop yourself up on your elbows and reach for a water bottle laying a few feet away from you. You couldn't care less about who's it is; you're sure you've put worse things into your body. As you drink slowly from the bottle, you regard your small circle of people you have started to think of as friends.**  
**

Your eyes immediately come to rest on the strip of skin showing where John's shirt has ridden up. You spend far too long admiring the perfect tone of his soft, smooth skin, eyes tracing the line of his spine up until it disappears beneath the blue fabric, the rest left to your imagination. Your eyes drift further upwards, finding his typically unruly raven hair where it sticks up at odd angles from his head, which is resting on his arms as he lays on his stomach in the grass. You trace over every feature of his peaceful face, hoping he doesn't open open opens his eyes to find you staring.

John is just one of those kids that everyone loves. Seriously; you doubt anyone in the school - no, _anyone he's ever met - _has found a reason to dislike the kid. Something about his his smile; the way even if he makes a jab at you, you know he doesn't mean it; the fact that it is so easy to make him laugh, but it's not even an annoying laugh, it's a soft giggle that never fails to make people smile; the way he shows pure, undivided attention and interest while you're talking to him. For you, it's his integrity. Yeah, his cuteness is a factor, but the one thing that you love about the kid is how down-to-earth he is. He is your polar opposite. While you spend majority of your time looking for escape, your life a meaningless blur, he is so... _real._You truly admire that about him. If you can't be him, at least you can hang around him and hope he rubs off on you. He is, essentially, perfect.

Realizing how long you'd been admiring him, you tear your eyes away and try to convince yourself that it was _completely platonic _staring.

When you sit upright, you catch a flash of reflected sunlight in your face, your sunglasses just barely protecting your eyes enough to keep you from blinking. You beseech the source of the assault on your eyes, and assume it was from one of Faith's long, glittering necklaces. She's sitting back, her arms stretched behind her to prop her up at a more-or-less 45 degree angle, clearly enjoying this one moment of peace in her very hectic life. You can imagine that not only being the Student President, but also the heiress to the throne of some small region in _who-the-fuck-knows-where _can make one's life pretty crazy. Just looking at Faith and thinking about how much she's achieved at 17 years old makes you cringe inwardly, reminded of how all you've accomplished is a whole pile of nothing, and pissing people off. And on top of that, she's still one of the nicest, genuine people you've ever met, among the ranks with John Egbert. The fact that she enjoys your company makes you feel a little bit redeemed.

In Faith's lap rests Seth's head. He's holding up his IPhone, tapping away on it as always, his perpetual, mocking sneer softened for the time being. Seth confuses you. He really does. He's that kid that shouldn't be popular, one of those geeks that is somehow considered cool enough to be surrounded by popular kids - not that _you're_popular. Not only is he a huge nerd, but he's just as big of an asshole. He's quick to insult anyone for the littlest thing, sometimes even barking nasty comments with no prompt at all. He's also just very... _unique_. He can't even say his own name without spluttering all over the place, showering any bystanders with his saliva. This is a result of an "accident" he'd had as a child, at the hands of his brother Matthew, who cut his tongue in half. Yep. Split, clean down the center. He was left with a forked tongue, and a terrible lisp. And then there's the colourblind thing, which you thought was bullshit until you started noticing the way he sometimes looks at things with one eye closed. He says that he can only see warm colours - such as reds, oranges, and yellows - in his right eye, and cold colours - greens, blues, and violets - through his left. It isn't too hindering for him, but sometimes you notice him rapidly alternating which eye he's using when studying certain things. You know he has a love for coding, and all sorts of weird computer tech shit that you never really bothered getting into. Despite the fact that Seth's a total nerd and that Faith is one of the most classy, sought-after girls in your school, they somehow work as a couple. Seth's bitterness compliments Faith's kindness, and from what you've seen, he treats her like the princess she is.

All that said, he's really not so bad, you find yourself getting into avid arguments about stupid shit with him all the time, which are soon settled by simply becoming bored of the topic, both of you left feeling satisfied with how you defended your point.

Then there's Tracey. You haven't gotten to know her much, as you spend a lot of time avoiding her. The blind girl has shown an acute interest in you, being very forward about it, too. It's not that you have a problem with dating a blind girl, or that she isn't good enough for you. You just think that as unstable as you are, it wouldn't be the best decision to have to watch over a blind girl. She can fend for herself pretty well, having been blind all her life, and she's pretty good company when you manage to escape her come-ons. Maybe in the future you would take up on her advances, but you don't like thinking about the future too much.

You continue on your thought journey around your little circle, leaving Tracey's sprawling form to look at Natalie, who is curled up against Tracy's side, nibbling on some cookies. Natalie isn't really your type, but you don't have a problem with her. Yeah, her obsession with cats can get get annoying - _Seriously, _you think, _crawling around and meowing and purring and hissing and the cat puns... it's just too fucking much._- and her tendency to invade your personal space gets on your nerves, but she's too innocent to brush off.**  
**

Lastly, completing the circle on the opposite side of yourself which you started, Karen is sitting cross-legged, reading a book. Karen is smart and almost motherly, and while she can spend a lot of time in ominous silence, you know that once you get her started, she will talk your ears off with her condescending tone and large words. You don't talk to her much, but sometimes you catch her looking at you with maternal, concerned eyes. You try to shrug it off as paranoia, but you get the feeling she knows something, that she's caught on to your act. You don't doubt she's smart enough to have figured you out, anyhow. She reminds you of your cousin, Rose.

You finally return the cap to the water bottle, throwing it into the vague middle area of the circle. You lie back down, knowing you only have about 10 minutes before the bell rings and you have to trudge back inside, where fluorescent lights wash everyone out and the air is stale. Just as you are closing your eyes, slipping into the null refines of your mind, John starts talking.

**"**Dave," he starts, just loud enough for his voice to drift over to you on the breeze. "... you wanna hang out after school?"

Woah. You didn't expect that. How long has it been since someone asked that of you? Every night for the past few months you would drag yourself home from school, then from home to work, where you slouch your way through a lame four-hour shift at a Starbucks. Yeah, poor career choice on your part, but there weren't many other options. It isn't even ironically lame. The only thing you enjoy about your job is that sometimes they let you choose the music played over the scratchy, outdated speakers, and you manage to appease the hipsters by playing your favourite underground jams, and even some of your own mixes. After work you just go home, only to prepare yourself to repeat the process the next day. You rarely go to hang out with friends anymore, probably because your only friends are sitting right here with you now, and even then, you could only consider them actual friends as of recently.**  
**

As much as it comes as a shock to you, you are suddenly filled with a rush of excitement. Not only does this mean you've earned the complete approval of one of your group mates, but you are happy you finally have something to do.

"Yeah, sure. What do got planned?" You reply, trying not to sound as excited as you are.

"I dunno, we could just chill at my place, watch some movies, play some videogames, ya' know? You don't have to work today, do you?"

You begin to shake your head no, but realize that he's not looking at you, and he requires an actual verbal response. "Nah, I don't usually work on Mondays... good thing too, cause I don't think I could deal with whiny hipsters complaining about their froth on a Monday. Considering how strong the temptation to throw boiling hot expresso in their face is during the calmer work days, I wouldn't trust myself to withhold my urges. And frankly, I think that's the very reason I am rarely called in on Mondays. I just might have told one too many misunderstood youths to shove their _low-fat whipped soy mocha latte frappucino - moins le creme frappe- _up their ass." You finish your drawn out rant with a sigh, and you can feel John's smile in the air.

"God, Dave. Would it kill you to have some common courtesy? Actually, scratch that. I think it just might." You cringe slightly at that. "Should I meet you at your last period class, or..." He trails off, waiting for you to take charge.

Thinking of your precious time in the darkroom, and how you've been longing to spend some time in there all weekend, you tell him that you'll meet him at his locker after school. You imagine horror scenarios of John stumbling into the darkroom, forgetting to close the first door, and letting the so highly despised light into the room, thus ruining not only your developing photos, but everyone else's. And then of course you'd be blamed, because _everyone _loves John, and it'd been your fault for not warning him.

As soon as he finishes telling you where his locker is, the bell rings and you all make your way back to the building, already missing your moment of peace.**  
**

It is just after 3 PM when you and John are finally headed to his house from the school. He doesn't live far from the school, hence why he walks to and from school every day, except in the colder winter months. While you walk, John is happily chattering your ear off, but you don't mind. You've always been more of a listener.

**"**My dad most likely won't be home until later, around 6 or so. You could probably stay for dinner, if you like. I mean, it's only the two of us, and my dad always seems to make way too much food," You glance suspiciously at John's lanky frame, not sure if you should doubt his truth, or be in awe of his metabolism. "...so it's not like we won't have enough. And uh, I'm gonna warn you in advance, but my house is kind of like, _filled _with harlequins and harlequin paraphernalia. I guess my dad somehow got the notion that I loved clowns when I was younger, and in some weird attempt to take up my interests and prompt bonding between us, he filled the house with them. It's horrible. No matter how much I tell him I hate them, they are still all around the house. I think maybe they've grown on him, and he just keeps them there cause he actually enjoys them now." You remember Seth bringing up harlequins in conversations before, and John getting really pissed. Well, that solves the mystery to that.

You keep listening to John's nervous and excited banter while you fish around in your backpack. After pulling out a few things you weren't looking for, you finally retrieve the crushed pack of cigarettes, only to find it empty. With a curse under your breath, you toss it back in your bag, and sling the strap back over your shoulder.

**"**Hey, s'there any corner stores or anything I can stop at on the way? I need smokes." You say, taking advantage of a pause in John's ranting.

**"**Ew, why do you even bother with smoking? It smells gross, and it'll only kill you faster, ya know."**  
**

**"**Mind you, it can be ironically relaxing to suck on a death-stick. There's something very stress relieving and therapeutic about killing yourself slowly." You fail to mention that you've probably already taken a good thirty years off your lifespan already. "Besides, I'm all for that live fast, die young shit. Carpe diem, eh?"

**"**I suppose..." John sighs, not even bothering to argue. You like that he is one of those people who will present their opinion, without forcing it on you. "But yeah, there's a little Korean corner store right before we get off the main road into the division."

Ten minutes later, you are handing your bag to John and walking into the store with your wallet in hand. It doesn't take you long to go in and buy the cigarettes, the little Asian woman not even asking for ID. Not that you wouldn't have been unprepared if she had; you carry around multiple IDs at all times. You stop for a moment and laugh at the little glass pipes they sell, sitting blatantly in the display case, varying in shapes, sizes and colours. It still makes you laugh at how illegal it should be to display these, let alone sell them. You're still smirking when you walk out of the little shop, the bell on the door chiming happily as you exit, when- _oh fuck no_.**  
**

All it takes for you to recognize the guy who is standing uncomfortably close to John, engaging in awkward, unnecessary conversation with him, is the streak of gelled purple hair, his height, and his state of dress. You take in his appearance, slightly taller than yourself, slender, and looming. His striped cardigan, accented by a long, thick scarf, hugs his body in "_all the right places_**"**, his jeans skin tight on his twig-like legs. By the time you've made your way to the sidewalk where they stand, your lips are pulled into a thin, tight line, and you're sure the blaze of your glare could penetrate your mirrored shades.

**"**Ampora," You start, your voice a deep growl, dripping with sarcasm and loathing. "Fancy seeing you here. What made you crawl off your corner?"

**"**_Daaaavid_, damn, you're looking pretty _swell_." The use of your full name makes you want to spit on him, but you hold yourself back. That'd be giving him satisfaction. "I do recall this being a relatively free country. Who are you to say I can't hang around this part of town?"

**"**Oh, shut your crusty shit-hole of a mouth. You're here for a reason. Don't tell me it's a coincidence that you just _happen _to be here when I am. And what were you saying to John?" You notice John is looking a little uncomfortable, and a lot confused at the whole ordeal.

**"**Maybe I _am _here for a reason... but you'll have to play nice if you want me to tell you. And hey, I was just telling your cute little boy-toy here what a catch he is." His grin is practically predatory, and it makes you feel sick.**  
**

**"**What the fuck do you want?" You can't stand to deal with his bullshit any longer than you already have, let alone at _all._

**"**_Well._.. I might have been told to relay a message if I happened to see you around. And don't think I'm doing this out of the kindness of my heart, I'm getting a _rewarded _for my commitment to the community." You scoff when he says kindness, but don't make any further remarks before informing John that you need a moment, and dragging Eric a short distance away to proceed your conversation in harsh whispers.

You cut straight to the point, not wanting to keep John waiting. "Is it Travis? What does he want?"

**"**Not only him. Karson, too. And you know what they want, you sly son-of-a-bitch. They want their money. Well, Kar does. You know Travis _needs_ it. It seems as though they're getting a little _too _tight on money, and Karson can't even cut him slack, no thanks to you." He sends you a pointed look, and even after all this time of convincing yourself that what you did was for the better, a pang of guilt hits you in the gut.

**"**So what do they want? For me to send them money? I barely have enough to make ends meet as it is. I know it's my fault they're in this situation, but I just can't spare anything right now. Tell em I'll pay them back in a few months or so, once my job gets steady and shit." You shift from foot to foot, jamming your hands into the pockets of your dark hoodie. You _really _don't want to deal with this conversation now. Not ever.

**"**I'm sure you could at least spare that pack of smokes you just bought. They'd appreciate it." He's smiling that evil smile and you hate it, you hate _him_. Seeing someone from your old life just makes your head spin, your stomach twist in knots, and you hate it. This day has become all too eventful.

**"**Fine," you huff, just wanting to get back to John and leave and watch movies and eat cake for the next few hours. "... but if I hear that the pack arrived with even _one _less of it's contents than when I gave it to you, I will cut your filthy tongue out. Then you'd be out of a job, wouldn't you?"

The rest of your exchange is short, much to your mutual contentment. You take two cigs from the pack before handing it off, returning to John. As you turn to leave with him, Eric stops you for a moment with a statement, seeming to be an afterthought of his.

**"**You might not want to take too long with that money. You know how Graham gets when he's... _all sobered up._**"**


	3. Just a Note

/works/593214/chapters/1068262

(moved to AO3, chapter 3 can be found there, as well as all the chapters to be added from here on out)


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